


A Gentleman and his Lover

by owleyesx



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: 1870s, Eventual Smut, F/M, London, Poverty, Prostitute, Smut, Victorian, Wealth, tom hiddleston - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:44:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3905185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owleyesx/pseuds/owleyesx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannah “Ruth” Carrington is a young prostitute living in the desolate slums of 1870’s Whitechapel, London after running away from her previous life. She stumbles across a highly educated and wealthy young professor with secrets of his own, by the name of Thomas W. Hiddleston. Will he be her redemption or her downfall?</p><p>----</p><p>This is my first fanfic, so please be patient! It's set in Victorian times so while i've tried to make it as historically correct as I can, please forgive any inaccuracies (or please point them out!). I have a rough idea where I want this to go, so shouldn't be much fluff. Any suggestions/crit welcome. Hope you enjoy it :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dorset Street, in the Spitalfields rookery was a dark and sinful place. It was a narrow over-crowded alley full of squalid lodging houses, filth and violence. Miscreants, prostitutes, and thieves all lived under the watchful eye of the slumlords.

On the corner, connecting with Commercial Street, sat The Britannia Public House. It was an uncontrollable free for all filled with every ne’er do well that one could imagine; the Sodom and Gomorrah of Victorian London. It’s cheap drinks and abundance of prostitutes who lived in the lodging above attracted vicious drunks and men from the docks, and ultimately ended in brutal bar fights and stabbings most nights of the week. The local constabulary knew to turn the other cheek; considering the Bobbies spent most of their time upstairs with the girls.

* 

Ruth stood on the landing above the bar, observing the usual commotion. Her eyes stung as she peered through the smog of tobacco and stale ale, the stench of urine and vomit was becoming normality to her. She watched as her fellow ladies did their rounds of the pub, busts spilling out from corsets to get the drunks drooling; their screeching laughter pierced through the rabble of shouting and singing.

She was the youngest whore in the Brit at twenty-three. She lacked the fiery weathered temperament of the others, but she had the beauty and body that the men went wild for meaning she was always in high demand. She was used to bringing in enough money to pay for her share of the lodgings and usually a little extra to keep hidden. Ruth shared her room with another girl called Imelda, but no one had seen her for a week meaning she had to bring in enough money to pay for them both. She didn’t want to face the consequences for missing another week’s rent.

Making her way down the stairs, she headed straight for the bar. She never drank, but Albert always gave her an overview of the evening so far. He was a kind man, for such a rough place and had always held a special place for young Ruth in his heart. In his 60’s, he was short with a balding head and handlebar moustache. The pub was in his name, but solely Mr. Black, the slumlord of Spitalfields, owned the lodgings above.

 

“Good Evening Miss Ruth,” he smiled cleaning glasses, he had a thick East-End accent. “Come down to enjoy the festivities?”

 

Ruth chuckled. _Festivities_ , _yes, that’s what you could call them._ “No word on Imelda yet, Bertie?” She sighed. “That’s over one week.”

His shoulders slumped, shaking his head. They both knew what that meant but neither could admit it. Ruth always tried to remain naively optimistic when one of the girls disappeared; _perhaps a young rich man had whisked her off for a better life? More likely she’ll turn up blue and cold by the Docks._ It came with the job – death and violence. Ruth was used to her fair share of it by now, but if it kept her out the Workhouse and paid her pittance it would do.

Ruth sat at the bar, watching the festivities as it were. No single voice could be picked up from the crowd, they all entangled into one roaring beast that filled her stomach with dread but her mind excited with the thought of paying her rent and perhaps enough for one of Bertie’s pies from the bar. She knew by now who to target, and who to avoid, and she had many regulars of her own.

 

“Alright Ruthy! Any chance of a three penny upright?” A voice called from her left, followed by a raucous of laughter and whistles. Eddie Barrow, a ‘sweep from Whitechapel. A harmless boy, but she needed more than threepence tonight.

 

“Miss Ruth?,” Albert was leaning over the bar towards her ear. Still inconspicuously cleaning glasses, he lowered his voice. “There’s a Gent at the far end of the bar, ain’t our usual type. Been ‘ere for a few hours now, ain’t talking but to ask for more ale.”

 _A Gent?_ Ruth thought to herself. Bertie never referred to customers as Gents, quite simply because they weren’t. She looked at him, his eyebrow slightly raised suspiciously. She casually leaned back on her stool, her long brown hair sweeping her waist. Past Albert, she could just see the man in question through the dim lighting and tobacco smoke. She made out the silhouette of a dark frock coat, collar turned up towards his face; head adorned with a top hat. He sat alone, right at the opposite end of the curved bar huddled over his ale.

 

“Per’aps you could talk to him, Miss Ruth? Must be ‘ere for summit… Er, your services maybe?” Albert’s voice was cautious. Ruth was special to him; she wasn’t like the other Molls. He hated the thought of her with these beastly men, groping and violating her. _Alas, such was life in London._

 

Ruth smiled, placing her hand on Albert’s gently to ask him not to worry. She knew he worried about her.

She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Petite, just over 5 feet tall and very slim from missing regular meals. She had been naturally granted with a large bust, and years of cinching her waist with a corset had left her with an almost perfect silhouette. She didn’t wear as much make-up as the older ladies, spare some powder for her face and lipstick.

Adjusting her bust above her corset, she made her way along the bar. Her stomach surged with anxiety at the thought of who this gentleman was. _Was he dangerous? One of these men that got their thrills from murdering prostitutes? There was certainly many of them about these days._ She shook her head, clearing her mind and breathing deeply. The rabble of the pub felt far away from her now as she approached the mysterious figure, in the gloomy corner of the bar.

 

“Good Evening, sir. Looking for some company tonight?” She smiled sweetly, steady her voice of her nerves. Her Devon accent was not strong, but she still hated the slight lilt it left on some words.

 

He did not reply to her, nor did he lift his gaze from his drink. She could not make out his face, between the shadow of the brim on his top hat or his coat collar. She studied him, intently. It certainly wasn’t often she was in the presence of someone so wealthy, which she could tell immediately from his dress. He looked like a tall man, from where he sat, with long slender legs. _What on earth was he doing in this piss pot of a pub?_ Ruth glanced over to Albert, who she knew was watching from a distance.

 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. Just, you don’t seem like our usual type of customer what with your fancy clothes and all. These lot would steal them off your back if they got half the chance.” She chuckled, hopelessly trying to make conversation. Her fingertips were clammy. He gulped the last of his pint.

 

“Well, it was nice to meet you. If you do change your mind, my name is Ruth.” She smoothed her long hair to one side of her shoulders, hesitating to see if he would look at her. No response again. Looking back at Albert, she shrugged her shoulders and turned to make her way back towards her seat.

 

She heard the shuffle of movement behind her, without looking she knew the gentleman had risen from his seat. Long strides slowly paced behind her, _is he following me?_ Ruth glanced to Bertie, who nodded. He was following her. _Company it is, then._ The throng continued around her, but she felt separated from it, as if she was on another plane.

She concentrated on her breathing; irregular, ragged.

Ascending the stairs, he was still behind her. The tap of his shoes on the wooden boards rung in her ears; echoing. She ran a solitary finger along the bannister, dust collecting on the tip. She thought back to Imelda, who always joked that she was cleaner than the staircase, _‘and that said a lot!’_ She chuckled. Poor Imelda. _What became of her? Would I be next?_

Ruth’s room was the last on the landing. It was a dark corridor, comprising of five rooms for ten women. The wallpaper along was peeling and stained, dampness had collecting on the ceiling above in patches that left a stench to turn anyone’s stomach. It was a good thing no one came for the décor. Sounds of laughter, shouting, and sexual noises came from each of the rooms as they passed.

 

“My room is just along here, sir.” No reply. Ruth’s heart raced.

 

Ruth’s room was small. She and Imelda shared the solitary bed, which was against the back wall. Furniture was sparse, other than a dresser, a chair and a bedside table. The room was dingy and cold, a single gas lamp next to the bed tried to light the room casting warped shadows onto the peeling walls. Imelda had previously fashioned curtains from an old dress, which now hung lifelessly over the window.

Ruth had entered first; the gentleman behind her had closed the door softly. She was not facing him, but in her small mirror, which she fixed her powder in, she saw him move to the chair in the corner. He stood much taller than her, she estimated, over six feet. It was not often she had seen a man so tall, and certainly so slender. He settled him self in the chair, still silent, removing his top hat.

She turned slowly to face him. Again, she could not make much out in the dull lighting. His outfit was black; she made out a white dress shirt and waistcoat under his frock coat, which had now been opened. He sat with his legs open, Ruth instantly felt as though he was in command. The room was silent, other than the muffled noises of Mary ( _she guessed_ ) getting shagged rotten next door. She slowly removed the top layer of her heavy dress, and let it fall to the floor. She stood exposed in her white corset and thin petticoat, and although she could not see his face, she felt as though he was undressing those from her with his eyes.

She moved closer, cautiously.

 

“Do you like what you see, sir?” Her voice was no more than a whisper. She ran her hands gently down over her bust and corset as she walked, no more than a tip toe and lighter than a feather. “What would you like to do to me?”

 

There was no response to either question. As she got closer, she caught the glimpse of glittering pale blue eyes in the light. Her breath was light and shallow, lips trembling with fear. She stopped where she stood, feet away from him, waiting for some kind of demand or sign. She was gradually making out his features more clearly now as she focused. He was incredibly handsome, light waved hair was slicked back from his slim face. Sharp cheekbones and a long nose, left shadows on his otherwise pale face. She saw sadness in those blue eyes, glazed with too much ale and dark circles emerging.

The gentleman looked back at her. Taking in every inch of her small body with his eyes. She was beautiful. Long, waved, brunette hair highlighted by golden tones flowing to her waist. _That waist._ So small, perfectly cinched. He looked back at her face. _Those eyes._ They were magnificent. Large and doe like. Long dark lashes curled away from the pools of golden hazel, which held so much innocence. Her pink lips had the perfect Cupid’s bow. He felt himself licking his own at the thought.

 

Another moment of silence, and he drew breath. “What is your name?” He asked. His voice was incredibly smooth.

 

“It’s Ruth, sir.”

 

“No, _Ruth._ What is your real name?” He asked again, slight impatience in his tone.

 

“That is my real name, sir.” She lied. No one knew her real name. It hadn’t been used since she left Devon, six years ago. _That was her past._

 

He had no reply, other than a deep sigh. He continued to stare at her, his gaze was unwavering. Ruth began to feel scared again, it swept over her body like a wave. She felt her throat closing up, a lump stopping her from speaking.

 

“Very well.” He continued after a few moments. He was so well spoken, other than slur from several hours of too much cheap drink. “I do not believe that to be a London accent you have, _Ruth_. Where are you from?”

 

She did not reply. She looked away from him, as his gaze continued to bore into her. She felt as if he was trying to dissect every part of her with his eyes, burning into her very sole. _The past is the past._

 

“I’m speaking to you, Ruth. Did you hear me?” He asked. His tone had not changed.

 

“I did. Sir.” She managed to utter. She felt as though she had to spit her words out, as if they were frozen within her.

 

He clasped his hands together under his chin, resting his elbows on the armrests of the chair. His head now tilted slightly back, he continued to look at her through his wearying eyes. Ruth’s heart was pounding. She slowly and carefully slipped down her petticoat, leaving her standing in her corset and frilled knickers. Something about him excited her, deep within from her very core. But he frightened her too, more frightened than she had been of anyone.

She moved lightly towards him, and straddled his lap on the chair. Her lips lightly brushed his ear, and for a moment she swore she could have heard his breathing falter. He did not place his hands on her; he continued to sit perfectly straight and perfectly still.

 

“What would you like me to do to you?” She whispered into his ear, breathing in his scent from his neck. It was a dizzying mixture of rich sandalwood and alcohol. Her heart fluttered.

 

“I’m merely here for the company, Ruth. As you suggested to me downstairs at the bar.” His voice was low, and every word perfectly annunciated. She closed her eyes as he spoke into her ear.

 

“And what kind of company would you like?” Ruth toyed.

 

“The talking kind.”

 

 _‘The talking kind’._ Ruth considered his reply for a few moments. She heard the noises of Mary’s orgasm through the wall, and the grunting of her customer. Here she sat, straddled atop a clearly very rich handsome man, and was it possible that he didn’t want to sleep with her? He was still not touching her. He was very drunk, she gathered that, but normally that made them worse! She found herself frowning. _If you want to talk sir, let’s talk._

“What are you doing here?” She enquired, sitting back to look at him.

 

He looked back at her, keeping his gaze above her large breasts that were nearly falling out of her little corset. A small smirk formed across his lips. He was playing her at her own game.

 

“I’m from Devon.” She sighed, replying to his earlier question. She removed herself from his lap and moved to sit on the bed. It sunk down as she sat on it, creaking.

 

“I thought so. And how long have you been here?” His tone was smarmy now. Ruth rolled her eyes, he was winning the interrogation game.

 

“I have been in London for six years. I’ve been in the Brit for just over a year.”

 

He nodded his head, considering her answer. “You didn’t answer my question.” Ruth frowned, getting more irate. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Getting a drink. Having some company.” He smirked. He was getting more arrogant.

 

“We both know this isn’t the place for people like you!” She blurted, raising her voice. “Why would you come to a place like this?”

 

“And what might you know about ‘people like me’, hmm?” He looked at her, scanning her. Ruth felt exposed now, her feelings of fear and excitement had left as quickly as they arrived and have been swiftly replaced by anger.

 

“I know this isn’t the right part of town for you! Are you one of those whore killers? Because if you are, please kindly just get it over with – “ He cut her off, chucking. His chuckle turned into a laugh. “Ehehehe”.

 

He stood from the chair, collecting is hat. He paced around the room, scanning every inch. His head nearly touched the ceiling. He wobbled slightly, unstable on his feet from drinking. Ruth’s face was now one of contempt for this arrogant man. She wished she’d never spoken to him, wished Albert had left him alone, wished she wasn’t in this God forsaken place.

 

“Oh, Ruth from Devon.” He chuckled. “You certainly have been interesting company this evening. Short-lived as our meeting may have been, perhaps I may request your company again when I have had a little less ale, and you have more clothes on.” He turned to walk towards the door, and placed money on the dresser for his time.

 

“I don’t want your money!” Ruth shouted “And I don’t even know your bloody name!”

 

The tall gentleman looked back towards her on the bed and he opened the door. “My name is Hiddleston.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a chance on the intriguing Mr. Hiddleston, Ruth finds herself getting deeper involved with some conflicting emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your views/kudos and bookmarks so far! I hope you're enjoying reading this :) If you have any suggestions/crit, please let me know! I found this chapter a little slow to write, more of a descriptive chapter. The next ones should be more fast moving, with much more Hiddles!

 

Ruth was out of breath, lifting her heavy dress just above her ankles to avoid the filth on the ground as she hurried herself to the police station. Her mind was racing, wondering why she was being summoned so – but she kept returning to the same conclusion.

Albert had woken her early that morning; it was very rare of him to do so. She had been restless during the night, tossing and turning from the events of that evening and her chance encounter with that rude toff. She normally slept most of the day with her busiest hours being that when the Brit filled with the workmen and drunks.

 

“Miss Ruth? Miss Ruth, there’s a telegram from the Police Station. They request you visit them as soon as convenient.” Albert had called through her door, knocking several times.

 

She wasn’t being arrested - she knew that. She had been careful the past six years, and had rarely gotten herself into trouble. _No trouble that she couldn’t get herself out of, that was for sure._ The only times she had been called to the station was for one of the other girls – or one of their bodies. _Imelda._

The streets were quiet at this time. The market stalls were being set up, and the drunks and whores would be sleeping, nocturnal beasts as they were. Rain pattered lightly to the cobble, congealing the straw from horses carts and filth from the human and animals.

Ruth reached the entrance of the station, one of few dotted around H Division. Behind the desk stood the Duty Officer. He was an older gentleman with red muttonchops and moustache. He raised his eyes above his half-moon spectacles from his paperwork to look at her as she approached.

 

“Ruth, from the Britannia on Dorset Street, sir. I received a telegram this morning?” She enquired. She was fidgeting with her hands below the desk. _Imelda._

“Hmm.” He replied, raising his hand to point her to a seat to wait for an officer.

 

Ruth sat; cautiously, anxiously. Her palms were sweating profusely as she looked around the station. Officers bustled past, indistinct conversations happening all around her. Her stomach felt as though it had tied itself in a knot, cramping and twisting. All she could think of was Imelda. It wasn’t the first time she had been called to identify a dead girl, although it never really was identification. All she could ever confirm was the name that the girl in question had given her, no knowledge of any family or her real name.

 

“Miss, will you come with me please?” A voice brought Ruth from her daze. An officer stood in front of her, towering above.

 

He led her from the entrance, down several corridors to the door of the Medical Examiner’s room. Neither had exchanged words on the way.

Inside, Ruth saw a covered figure lying on the cold metal gulley in the middle of the room. A clinical and lifeless smell hung around the room, the metal of surgical instruments catching her eye as she scanned. The examiner turned to face her, looking down his nose over his spectacles as the Duty Officer had done.

 

“Thank you for your assistance, Madam. Please tell us if you recognise this woman, perhaps you can name her?” There was no empathy in his voice. Ruth didn’t blame him, it was his job and in his mind prostitutes nearly always ended up this way.

 

He pulled back the white cover quicker than she could give a reply. Her eyes instantly averted the exposed corpse. She breathed slowly and stepped towards the body.

Mottled, with a pale blue tinge. Slightly swollen. Bruising on her knees and wrists. Ruth’s eyes made their way slowly up the length of the body. She looked at the fresh stitching the examiner had made on her chest from where she had been opened. Bruising on her clavicle and around her neck, now a deep purple turning to brown. The woman’s hair was still wet; she had been pulled from the Docks. She had been strangled.

 

“It’s not her!” Ruth blurted suddenly. “Her hair. It’s not her.”

 

“Not who?” The examiner questioned, looking at her properly now.

 

“Imelda. It’s not her. I thought it might have been, it’s been over a week…” Ruth’s heart fluttered with hope. The body lying in front of her was not that of her friend.

 

Hope instantly turned to regret. She didn’t know this woman, and the chance of someone else knowing was slim.

 

Nameless. Unknown. Forgotten.

 

“I don’t know this woman.” Her voice was swollen with sadness.

 

*

 

Navigating the now crowded streets of Whitechapel back to the Britannia, Ruth’s pace was much slower than her previous leg of her journey. Feet scuffed the cobbles as she walked, her dress trailing in the muck. Her mind was too ablaze with emotions and thoughts to care about the heavy rain gradually soaking her. Images of that dead women engrained into her, the way she was bruised she had certainly put up a fight against whatever beast had done this. All she could think about was her missing friend – _was she lying on a metal tray, somewhere else in the city with no one to identify her? God, let her be safe._

The doors of the Brit were infront of her before she realized. Upon entering, Albert stood in the middle, mopping up the mess of the previous night before it all began again in a few hours. It was a wonder why he bothered.

 

He stopped mopping as soon as he saw Ruth. “Miss Ruth, there’s…”

 

She ignored him, floating past. Unable to process anything else at that minute, she felt distant. Albert watched as she made her way up the stairs.

 

“It wasn’t her, Bertie.” She managed to utter, without looking back. Bless Albert; he said nothing – which was exactly what she needed.

 

Outside her room door, Ruth heard indistinct conversation from within. Voices rising and lowering again, like the swell of a rough sea. She hoped one of the other girl’s wasn’t using her room; she wanted peace for quiet contemplation.

 

Opening the door she first noticed Mary who stood with her back to the door, facing someone else. She turned around instantly upon hearing the door open, to see a sodden and remorseful looking Ruth.

 

“Ruthy! The audacity of some folks! I tried to tell him to leave but he was insistent on seeing you!” She called, face red and arms flailing passionately.

 

Ruth screwed up her face, clenching her eyes tightly shut. _What now?_ She took a moment to relax her face with a calming breath, and on reopening her eyes she saw of whom Mary spoke of.

 

A familiar tall figure emerged from behind Mary. Ruth’s eyes were refocusing after being so tightly shut. A vision in grey moved in front of her, slowly and gracefully. Looking up, the pale face and sharp features of Mr. Hiddleston appeared. Ruth’s heart fluttered anxiously, finding herself asking Mary to leave the two of them alone.

 

Mr Hiddleston stood in front of her, the cold grey daylight of her room illuminating his charcoal coloured frock coat. He held his top hat bashfully in front of his chest, his eyes fixed on hers. His light hair had recently been smoothed back from his face, a few stray waved locks falling out of place. He seemed much more vulnerable and subdued than he had done the previous evening. The blue irises of his eyes were pale against the noticeable thin red bloodshot veins that surrounded them. The familiar aroma of spice and sandalwood caught her nose, flushing her cheeks slightly.

Once again, she felt exposed in front of him – soaked to her skin, emotional and tired. _But_ , he did not intimidate her now. His towering stature above her was mere height, and not prowess that commanded her to quake at her knees and her breath to all but leave her. In the light of day, he was a mortal – as was she, and both were equals.

 

Neither spoke for a few minutes. Both of them stood trying to find the right words to say: for Mr Hiddleston, an apology was owed. For Ruth: a wrath of mercilessness she was yearning to unleash.

 

“Miss Ruth,” he eventually said. His voice soft and smooth, every letter so eloquently pronounced with careful precision. His fingertips nervously toyed with the brim of his hat. “I understand if you do not wish to hear this from me, but I believe I owe you an apology for my behavior last night.”

 

Ruth wanted to consider his words; she wanted to rein fury on him for his arrogance. But the words escaped her, suddenly she found herself asking _why?_ Why would he come back here to apologise to her?

 

“Why?”

 

He looked at her, standing soaking wet. Her long brown hair hung by her waist, droplets of water falling to the floor where she stood. She was even more beautiful in that moment than he had remembered the previous night; blurred as his memories were. She had been all he had thought about as he had lain drunkenly in his bed. The room had spun above and around him, and in the dizzying sickness she was all he saw clearly.

 

“Because you did not deserve how I spoke to you, how I treated you. It was no right of mine to ask you the things I did. I was ignorant, thinking I could command you like that.” He sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, regretfully. His fingers were long and slender.

 

Ruth frowned. “I can assure you, Mr. Hiddleston, that men have done and said much worse to me on first meetings. Such is the nature of the beast.”

 

Ruth shrugged. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him as she had done the night before, her anger was dissolving into a state of confusion and conflicting emotions. She walked to her drawers, looking at her wet face in the mirror. She rang her hair out onto the exposed floorboards at her feet.

 

He paused, pursing his lips, “I did not intend on returning to see you, Ruth. Why would I? You were perfectly correct last night when you said I don’t belong here, and I most certainly do not. A brief meeting with you should have been all that came of my otherwise disastrous evening, yet I could not erase the vision of you from my mind. The thought of you.” He began to pace. His long slender legs taking elegant strides across the small room. “In those brief minutes with you, I felt something awaken within me that I haven’t before. You brought about an insecurity that left me foolishly thinking to defend myself. I have never experienced it before. I have never experienced anyone like you before.”

 

Ruth listened to his beautiful voice, her back still facing him. The way in which words rolled off his tongue was exquisite and it all came so naturally. She felt as though she could listen to him for hours, a voice that could gently lull her to a deep sleep. She looked over her shoulder; he stood behind her looking down over her small frame.

 

“Why should I believe you? All that is between us is a chance encounter in which all you did was show that no matter how well you dress, or how clever and witty you may be, all men have the same dark desires when they feed a demon within with cheap liquor and lust.” She moved away from him to look out of the window. Raindrops raced each other down the panes, crashing and colliding into one another as they did so.

 

“I do not ask you to believe me, Ruth. Only perhaps to take upon this chance encounter you and I have become entwined in, and for me to make amends to you. It is all I ask.” He strode towards her, more persistent in his tone now.

 

“Join me, tomorrow evening. Dine with me?” He smiled softly at her. Creases forming from the corners of his pale sapphire eyes.

 

Ruth sighed. For all his chivalry, she believed he had forgotten her place in polite society.

 

“I appreciate your kind offer, Mr. Hiddleston but I am afraid I am not a woman one takes out for an evening meal.” She half-smiled, “With the prostitution and all. I must also pay my lodgings, and I cannot do that when off gallivanting.”

 

He placed his hand on her shoulder, lightly. The dull grey light of her room highlighted his sharp features perfectly; how beautiful structured his face was with his high cheekbones. His eyes were locked with her, sincerity shone through.

 

“I will take care of that. I will send a carriage for you, around six o’clock. Tell the small gentleman behind that bar that you have been _procured_ for the evening.” His tone was bitter at the thought.

 

“It isn’t Albert who deals with my ‘procurement’ as you put it. However, I will make sure to tell him. I would hate to think what would happen if Mr. Black was unaware of my whereabouts…” Her gaze drifted off, thinking about the elusive Mr. Black. He was the slumlord who ran her lodgings, as well as most of the doss houses on Dorset Street. A man she certainly would not like to displease.

 

_An evening with Mr. Hiddleston it is, then._

*

 

The lamps around the streets were just being lit as the grand, black carriage trundled along the cobble streets. 

Inside was a rich mixture of gold-painted wood and deep purple velvet that screamed grandeur. Ruth fidgeted nervously with her fingers, which were politely placed on her lap. She sat rigidly in the plush velvet seat, staring out the window at the beautiful townhouses and tree-lined streets they were passing. She had spent all of that day contemplating the evening to come. _What would his home be like? Would he still be as kind to her?_ She had images of beautiful chandeliers and mahogany, parquet flooring and rows upon rows of bookshelves. She found herself smiling, wondering if he would teach her things she could never dream of experiencing for herself. _Or, perhaps could have done… before London._

She was dressed in a simple black dress, with a detailed high-neck white lace collar. It was the dress she had arrived to London in, six years ago. Several years of malnourishment had meant she had retained her incredibly slim figure of her teenage years.

 

“Almost there, Ma’am.” A voice brought Ruth back from her reverie. A man sat opposite her, formally dressed and incredibly polite. He was older, with spectacles and a grey moustache. _A butler, perhaps? If only, oh imagine that!_

She had requested the carriage did not pick her up from outside the Britannia, rather further down Commercial Street. The gentleman did not look at her with the usual judgment when he had held the door for her to enter the carriage; he just looked at her how he would any normal woman. She had found herself grinning, as though she was leading a double life. An actress, playing the part of a young socialite.

The carriage drew to a gentle stop at a quiet street. Large white townhouses sat back from the pavement, lined with rows of trees. Ruth admired them, wondering what type of people lived in them; families, aristocrats, doctors, lawyers. She wondered which one was his, picturing him sitting in a drawing room pouring over maps or literature.

 

“Which house is Mr. Hiddleston’s?” She enquired, politely as the older gentleman helped her out of the carriage.

 

“None of these, Ma’am. Mr. Hiddleston lives over there.” He smiled, pointing to the largest house in the street.

 

It sat directly at the end of the dead-end street, in all it’s glory. A palace in it’s own right, over four floors. Ruth’s heart fluttered. _Who on earth is he?_

 

She swore she saw a familiar figure watching her from the second floor window.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Inside the impressive entrance hall Ruth found herself studying every inch of the details around her. Her heeled shoes tapped lightly, echoing around the room as she crossed the black and white tiles. Above her, a crystal gasolier hung in the centre of the high ceiling, casting shadows on to the filigree plaster and bathing everything below in a warm glow. Rooms led off at either side of the hall, behind heavy wooden doors. Ahead of her, through a large archway, she made out a grand sweeping staircase.

 

The gentleman from the carriage had shown her through to a drawing room to await Mr. Hiddleston. She sank into the dark leather of the long Chesterfield, in awe of her surroundings. This was everything she had expected it to be; luxurious, warm, sophisticated. The room was adorned with bookcases, deep mahogany furniture and an enormous fireplace ablaze in front of her. She wondered how many of the books he had read, what subjects were they on? _Where does one even get so many books?_ She pictured him sitting in the matching armchair by the marble hearth, a drink in one hand while skimming through a history book. She found herself smiling at the thought. But, suddenly, so overwhelmed.

 

She was out of her depth, much like Mr. Hiddleston had been the evening of their encounter. A life of such luxuries was far behind her, a distant memory that seemed as if it were never were compared to her current situation. She found herself thinking of the Brit, and of Albert. She felt guilt for even leaving; she did not belong here. Perhaps she could leave without anyone noticing?

 

“Ah, there you are Ruth. Helmsley advised me you had arrived.” A gentle voice purred from across the room to the doorway.

 

Ruth stood immediately, and turned to face Mr. Hiddleston. It was the first time she had seen him without a coat, he suddenly felt much more real to her.

 

“Good Evening, Mr. Hiddleston.” Ruth curtsied politely.

 

He chuckled in that smooth way that he did and moved towards her. “No such formalities are needed this evening, Ruth. And please, call me Thomas. I regard Mr. Hiddleston as my father!” He took her hand and kissed it lightly. “Sit please, I have been advised that dinner will be ready shortly.”

 

Ruth sat, watching him decant a rich amber liquid into a small crystal tumbler. He had offered her a drink, but she declined. She had seen too often what alcohol did to people. He wore a beautifully tailored double-breasted waistcoat above a crisp white dress shirt, and navy cravat. A glimpse of a silver pocket watch chain caught her eye from his pocket. Seeing him in his correct environment made him seem much more human to her, tangible; not just a mysterious benefactor that had taken a peculiar interest her. She couldn’t help her eyes from staring at his backside; something about the way his trousers sat was mesmerising. _Enough!_

“I trust your journey across town was pleasant? And Helmsley picked you up from your chosen location?” He settled himself into the high-backed armchair she had pictured him in earlier, adopting his usual wide-legged position.

 

“Oh, yes, thank you. What a beautiful carriage! Is it yours?” She enquired.

 

“Mmm.’” He nodded, sipping from his tumbler. Flames from the fire, reflected through the crystal, giving off beautiful rainbow fragments of light. “If I may be so bold as to say, Ruth, you look quite beautiful this evening.”

 

His eyes studied every inch of her. She sat rigid and uncomfortable, on the edge of the Chesterfield. Her hands were placed politely in her lap, but he couldn’t help but notice the distinct nervous fidgeting of her fingers. She was looking around the room, seemingly overwhelmed by everything around her. She looked vulnerable; she was not in the same element that she was used to.

 

Dressed all in back, other than a high white lace collar around her dreck. It was the first time Thomas had seen her hair pinned up; it highlighted the beautiful structure of her face and how slender her neck was. She was quite a fine young woman, and obviously one of particularly high breeding. There was a glimmer of aristocracy in her, something she tried very hard to suppress.

 

“Tell me, Ruth. What is bothering you so? You have no reason to be so nervous.” His tone was soft, and his position still casual in the grandeur of his chair.

 

“Oh, nothing is bothering me! I am sorry. Your home is so incredibly beautiful. Does it not get lonely, being alone in such a large house?” She settled herself more comfortably, making the conscious decision to calm her nerves.

 

He contemplated her question, looking into the fire. _Yes, being alone in such a large house._

 

After he did not answer her for several minutes, Ruth cleared her throat. “I apologize, I did not mean to offend you if I have done so. It is not my place to ask.” She looked at her lap, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

 

“There is nothing to apologise for, Ruth. You are quite in your right to ask questions. I suppose I have been somewhat… hazy with you. It has just occurred to me, that really, you know very little about me!” He laughed slightly. Ruth had come to thoroughly enjoy the sound of his laugh, finding it to be incredibly comforting.

 

He turned back to face her. His sapphire eyes glinting at her in the subdued, orange light from the flames.

 

Suddenly Ruth’s mind was ablaze with questions she had wanted to ask him, but a feeling of guilt overcame her for not being totally honest with him about herself.

 

“Thank you, Thomas.” She smiled. “But perhaps it is I who owes you some sort of explanation?”

 

Thomas’ brow furrowed at her response.

 

“On our first meeting you asked what my real name was. I lied and told you that it really was Ruth. My real name is Hannah Carrington.” She shook her head, disappointed at herself for lying to him when he was offering her his own honesty.

 

Thomas considered her explanation. He did not feel angry, as she was expecting to. He felt a strange humbling sensation come across him, for the reason that he was possibly the first person she had told this to in the six years she had been living in London.

 

He smiled. “Well, _Hannah_. That certainly suits you better. Why ‘Ruth’?”

 

She sighed. After six years, the time had come to bring up her past from the deep place within her that she had locked it away. She explained how she was the youngest child and only daughter to one of the richest families in Devon. They owned a mine; copper and ore and the likes. It was prosperous and as her older brothers were now becoming involved in the family business, so should she in her own way. Her parents had arranged an engagement, little to her knowledge, to another wealthy mining family’s son from Devon. They had hoped that by the joining of the two families, so too could the mines. Infuriated by the expectation that she was just a pawn to be used and the idea of a marriage to a man she did not know, she ran away from home to London first ending up in a workhouse at the age of seventeen, and then being “rescued” as it were by a local Madam who offered her lodgings in return for her services. Thus, how she become what she was today.

 

“So, back to your earlier question,” she said solemnly. “Ruth is my mother’s name.”

 

Hannah expected him to revolt at the thought that she had been using her mother’s name as her prostitution alias for the past six years. She expected to see his face morph into disgust at such a bizarre idea.

 

“To remind you of what has become of you?” He asked. His tone still as gentle as it had been all evening.

 

“Yes, something like that I suppose. It was my mother who had pushed for the idea of the marriage. She was a cold woman, never had been very fond of me. My father on the other hand, I was his favourite and he was mine.” She missed and thought of her father nearly every day, and how she had broken his heart by running away.

 

“Have you ever been in contact with them since you arrived here?” He asked, moving off his armchair to sit beside her. He sat closely; Hannah could smell his familiar scent and tried everything in her power not to bite her lip. There was something completely hypnotic about it, much like everything else about him.

 

“Yes. Not long after I arrived here, I wrote to my father explaining why I had done what I did and apologizing, although really I had no choice. I always dreamed of doing something with my life, not just being some frigid woman of the house like my mother was. He replied, although heartbroken he understood my choice and told me he would still always be my father, and I his little girl. I wrote a few more times, but no reply. I know my mother was involved in that.” Hannah suppressed a lump of emotion that had formed in her throat. It was the first time she had told anyone since she had arrived, _the first time she had wanted to tell anyone._

She felt a soft hand placed upon hers. Looking to her side, Thomas was looking into her eyes with gratitude. Without words, he had thanked her for her bravery and for choosing to tell him. She felt their eyes lock, like two magnets being drawn closer and closer together. Her lips quivered at the anticipation at the thought of her against his.

 

“Mr. Hiddleston, sir. Dinner is served in the dinning room.” Helmsley cleared his throat from the doorway, and so did the anticipation of the kiss clear from between them.

 

_Damned Helmsley,_ Hannah felt her eyes squeeze shut with frustration and embarrassment.

 

Thomas chuckled softly, _“Eheheh”._ He rose nodding his head for Helmsley to leave. Standing in front of her, his great height towering above her. Her eyes awkwardly at his waist level, Hannah cleared her throat and quickly averted her eyes.

 

“Shall we?” He grinned at her, bearing beautiful white teeth, offering his arm for her to take with hers.

 

“We shall.” She smiled back, accepting his invitation.

 

*

 

 

Hannah’s mouth had not tasted such lavish flavours in so long. Thomas’ cook had taken the liberty of presenting them with a beautiful feast of sweet crackled pork and rich game pie, which Hannah lapped and gorged with great delight trying her best to preserve her table manners.

 

She sat at the opposite end of a long mahogany table from Thomas, who smiled as he watched her captivated in the culinary delights.

 

“Hannah, I do believe you have yet to ask me any questions you may have. Considering you graciously laid your past bare to me, I believe it safe to say that I may owe you quite a fair bit of explanation!” He laughed, gently dapping his mouth with a serviette.

 

She thought back to the questions that were buzzing around her head earlier. Finishing her meal, she placed her cutlery back onto the plate to show she was finished.

 

“Who exactly are you? I mean, I know your name is Thomas Hiddleston. _But, who are you?_ ” She narrowed her eyes, as if trying to decipher him for herself.

 

He smiled. “Ah, how philosophical of you young Miss Carrington! Perhaps rather fitting, too. I am a Professor, at the London University. I was educated at Cambridge, and spent several years thereafter exploring and making trips of discovery with fellow scholars. Hence, perhaps the amount of strange objects and artifacts you may have already noticed around you.” He sat back in his chair, awaiting her response.

 

“What sort of Professor are you?” He found herself wide-eyed, head in hand gazing at him for more fascinating information. The way he had just explained himself sounded so run of mill, as if he was nothing extraordinary.

 

“Classics and Humanities. Do you like history, Hannah?”

 

“Oh yes, very much!” She felt like an excitable child. “I am afraid I don’t know very much though. I had always wanted to be a scholar though, literature perhaps! I love to read.”

 

He noted that the more excited she got, the slight Devon lilt on her accent became stronger. She truly was a delightful little thing! Finishing his glass of rich red wine and letting out a satisfied sigh, he rang a small bell that had been sitting next to him on the table.

 

“Do you require anything else to eat, Hannah? I’m sure the cook will be more than happy to whip up something for you!” He smiled, his fingertips forming a point under his chin.

 

Hannah watched as Helmsley and a young maid cleared the table from underneath them, waiting to find if anything else was required of them for the night. “Oh, nothing more for me Thomas thank you. I don’t think I could eat another thing!” She laughed gently.

 

“In that case,” Thomas announced, rising from his chair. “Helmsley, Anita – that will be all for the evening. Hannah, I have something to show you.”

 

She followed him out of the dinning room and back into the entrance hall. She had to take several steps to keep up with his long strides as they moved through the archway she had been looking through earlier, and into another room to the left. It was much dimmer than the dinning room had been, although many lamps illuminated points throughout the large space.

The pair had entered Thomas’ library. Rows upon rows of rich mahogany bookcases lined the walls, and jutted out here and there to almost form a maze; snaking around the room creating dead-ends and secret passageways of literary heaven. Hannah could get lost in there purposely, there was no telling what sorts of delights she would find within all these dusty covers. She ran her fingertips lightly along the spines of the books she passed on the cases as she wandered, wild-eyed into the intellectual abyss. She looked above, at the titles towering up to high ceiling and smiled at how it made her feel so small. It was not intimidating to her; it was comforting.

 

She wound round corners, in awe of all Thomas had collected and wondered whether he had read off these works. She passed encyclopedias, travelogues, language books; novels, history books and each one excited her more than the last! She almost forgot where she was, until she had worked herself into a small dead end at what felt like the middle of the maze.

 

The air was thick, a dusty smell of yellowing pages bound in ageing leather hung around her. The light was dim in this retreat she had found herself, and she felt as though she could hide away here forever in this space of warmth and silence. She closed her eyes, leaning back towards the case behind her.

 

Thomas stood, leaning against the bookcase at the end of the dead-end watching her. He smiled, it was the first time she had looked peaceful since he met her. Neither he nor Hannah had spoken since they had entered the library, and he was quite happy to let her have her moment. He moved closer, quietly, tracing his own fingers along where Hannah had ran hers on the books.

 

Hannah opened her eyes, slowly, breathing deeply. She looked at him now standing next to her, she wanted nothing more than to thank him profoundly for letting her into this space of solitude. His mouth curled up slightly at one side into a small smile as he looked at her. His light hair had fallen slightly out of place from its usual slicked-back style, as though he had recently ran his hand through it; he was the epitome of handsome.

 

Keeping her green eyes locked into his, she felt his thumb underneath her chin gently pulling her face towards his, as he stooped his neck down to her height.

 

“What an incredible being you are, Miss Carrington.” He purred softly at her, his face just a few inches from hers. He had stalked her gently throughout the library, and now she felt as though he as coming to claim his prey.

 

Hannah bit her lip. Her heart began to race as she tried to hold her breath, hiding how irregular it had become. He moved in front her, their bodies’ just centimetres from each other and it was more than Hannah could take. She pressed her lips against his, feeling how soft they were. She closed her eyes again.

 

Thomas moved in closer to her body, pressing her against the bookcase behind her. His hands were at either side of her, locking her into position as he reciprocated her kiss. Hannah felt as she had the first night they had met, he was completely in charge and she felt powerless to him. _It excited her_.

 

Kissing deeper and longer, the pair felt their bodies move together in rhythm with the moment’s passion. Thomas pulled away from her, his forehead pressed against his. His voice was barely a whisper, “Hannah, will you spend the night here tonight?”

 

Every part of Hannah’ body screamed yes. It was the first time since she had come to London and been with men, that she had remotely wanted to. She had never felt so draw to someone, so completely under his spell. Her lips trembled, as if yearning to be back against his.

 

Yet a word escaped from her lips that she did not expect. _No._

“I’m sorry, Thomas. I can’t.” She sighed, shaking her head.

 

He pressed his lips gently against her forehead. “No, I am sorry Hannah. I was caught up in the moment, and it was wrong of me to rush you into this so suddenly.”

 

He moved back from her, squeezing her arms affectionately. “I really am captivated by you, Hannah. Please do not mistake it for anything else.”

 

She smiled, trying so very hard to contain a giddy scream that was building up inside her. She could not believe a man such as this was so interested in her, so _captivated._

 

“Oh, it’s just I haven’t felt like this before. And so soon would, well, be no different from any of my normal nights. You’re so kind to me, Thomas.” She looked down at the floor.

 

“Please, don’t explain yourself to me Hannah. I totally understand, after all I suppose you haven’t had the best experience of men. I do promise to try to make you see the good in us though.” He took her hand in his.

 

 

*

 

Hannah sank into the deep purple velvet of the carriage seat, her eyes shut and a wide grin across her face. She could not believe the events of the evening, or just how truly charming Thomas seemed to be. As she had left his home, he had given her another tender kiss and promised he would call on her again soon, although he expected to be busy with work in the next few weeks. She believed him, how could she not? But part of her wondered if he really meant it, or it was simply just a polite way to let her down considering she had not provided her end of the service he had paid for the evening.

 

_Time will tell_ , she mused, as the carriage trundled back towards the Britannia and back to reality.


End file.
